Gabe must be off somewhere,

  and that’s fine by me.

  I’m here to commiserate

  with Zelda and don’t need

  a distraction.

  She must have been

  waiting for me,

  because she answers

  my knock right away.

  I realize this is the first

  time I’ve been here

  without Dad and/or Gabe.

  I hoped you’d come, she says.

  How about a drink?

  God knows I’ve had a couple.

  I think it over, but decide,

  “Better not. At some point

  I’ll have to drive. You go

  right ahead, though.”

  I follow her inside,

  where it looks like Christmas.

  Red and green garlands sway

  over doorways and windows,

  and in the living room

  is one of those pop-up trees,

  all trimmed and lit.

  “When did this happen?

  How did this happen?”

  It didn’t look like this

  last time I was here.

  “Don’t tell me it was elves.”

  She snorts. Wish it were

  that easy. Gabe and I have

  been working on it. He’s done

  most of it, in fact. So maybe

  I do have an elf, though

  he’s a pretty tall specimen.

  Christmas is still two weeks

  away, but it’s not like Dad

  and I ever put up a tree

  or hang stockings. I’ve never

  even considered doing such

  things. “Well, it’s pretty.”

  It seemed prettier a few hours

  ago. Have a seat. There’s stuff

  you should know. She gulps

  whatever it is she’s drinking.

  I perch on the edge of the sofa,

  rather than settle in. Not sure

  I’ll let myself feel comfortable

  again. At least with discomfort

  you’re clear on the truth. Suddenly

  I don’t know why I came here.

  What can I say, really?

  The Feeling Must Be Mutual

  Because even as Zelda sits

  in the adjacent recliner,

  a huge sheet of Arctic ice

  coalesces in the silence

  between us. To break it,

  I ask, “Where’s Gabe?”

  This is not what I’m here

  to talk about, but Zelda’s all in.

  Gabe went out to the ranch

  to visit Hillary. I’m being direct

  here, because it’s one of the things

  you should know. Lately they’ve

  been spending time together.

  Glacier broken, a big chunk

  sinks. Glub-glub. Gabe and

  Hillary. Wow. Didn’t see that

  one coming. It’s crushing,

  but why? Not like he and I

  are an actual couple, just

  friends with privileges.

  And only a few hours ago,

  I thought I didn’t care about

  Syrah flirting with him.

  Is it because that was out

  in the open, and this definitely

  wasn’t? Are all guys sneaks?

  “Why didn’t he tell me?”

  He should have, and I’m sure

  he would have eventually.

  I think he was waiting to see

  how things panned out, but

  honestly, he’s smitten. Sorry

  to drop this in your lap on top

  of everything else, but today

  is the day for coming clean.

  “I guess it is. So you know,

  I have no freaking clue how

  Dad managed to keep me

  in the dark about everything.

  Obviously I’m stupid.”

  That makes two of us. But listen.

  There’s more. After you left

  and your dad took off, I stayed

  and talked to Ms. McCabe

  for a few minutes. You need

  to know that she was awarded

  legal custody of you. As her story

  goes, one December morning

  when you were very little she was

  at work when Mark—I can’t think

  of him as Jason—picked you up

  from daycare. He was in the army

  when he took off with you, and

  that made him AWOL. Now

  he’s considered a deserter.

  Awesome

  Just keeps getting better

  and better. “So now what?

  Is he going to be arrested?”

  She says she hasn’t called

  the authorities. I believe her,

  though I can’t understand

  why not. Or maybe I can.

  She doesn’t want to take

  a chance on pushing you away.

  “I’m not hers to push anywhere.

  Why did she track us down now,

  anyway? Why, after all this time?”

  Honey, she swears she never

  stopped looking for you, though

  the trail got cold after a while.

  “What if she’s making it all up?

  How hard could it have been?

  What about Ma-maw and Pops?

  She must have known them,

  and I stayed with them a few

  times. Easy to find me there.”

  I have no answer to that, or

  any opinion about why now.

  All I know is, this is complicated.

  Complicated

  Zelda is the Queen of Understatement.

  I mean, what am I supposed to do?

  Go home?

  Home?

  What’s that?

  Get up and go to work tomorrow,

  as if nothing unusual has happened?

  Unusual?

  More like

  mind-bending.

  And then on Monday, do I go to school,

  practice layups and free throws afterward?

  Algebra.

  Basketball.

  Just another day?

  How do I figure out my identity

  when I don’t even know my name?

  Ariel?

  Casey?

  Who the hell

  am I?

  My Sonora Anchor

  Seems pretty flimsy

  at the moment, and

  it occurs to me that

  to Dad “attachment”

  is a foreign concept.

  “So what happened

  with Dad? Did he say

  anything?”

  I can’t repeat most

  of it. I try not to use

  language like that,

  but what he said

  to Ms. McCabe was

  totally inappropriate. . . .

  “That much I already

  guessed. But what did

  he say to you? Did he offer

  any kind of an explanation?”

  Denial, denial, denial.

  That’s what he offered,

  and when I didn’t swallow

  a word of it, he stormed

  off. Left the rest of us

  standing there gawking.

  The Word

  That springs to mind concerning

  Dad is “coward.” I’ve never before

  thought about him in that way.

  Not sure why not. He was never

  exactly hero material, but he was

  all I had, so I guess I respected

  him for that. I’ve lost all respect now.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  Zelda shrugs. The quickest

  way to destroy a relationship

  is dishonesty. I love your dad,

  or thought I did, and believed

&nbs
p; he loved me, too. Love can weather

  small deceptions, but this . . .

  She shakes her head. To have

  absolutely no clue who the person

  you’ve devoted eight months of your life

  to really is? That’s hard to think

  about, and trusting him—or anyone—

  after this will be impossible, I’m afraid.

  Eight months of your life? What

  about the entire seventeen years

  of my existence? Still, I feel sorry

  for her. She doesn’t deserve this.

  Nobody does.

  Trying to Process

  Everything will take

  a while. A long while.

  Zelda and I sit in silent

  consideration.

  Thoughts ping-pong

  inside my skull, and the pain

  of that is very real.

  I’ve spent years denying

  my mother’s existence.

  Years wading through

  resentment, completely

  sucked into the lie

  that she didn’t want me.

  Years with absolutely zero

  doubt I was Ariel Pearson.

  What else don’t I know?

  That terrifies me.

  I think about Maya McCabe.

  The excitement in her eyes.

  Eyes, as I recall them,

  the approximate same shade

  as mine. And her hair, though

  it’s straighter, is the exact

  color of mine.

  “I look like her, don’t I?”

  No hesitation. Yes, you do.

  “I . . . I just . . . I don’t . . .”

  I know exactly how you feel.

  But now Zelda takes the time

  to study me. Nope. Wrong.

  I can’t possibly know how

  you feel. I’m sorry, Casey.

  “Don’t call me that! I hate

  that name.” I’m Ariel.

  Really? I think it’s cute. You

  should probably try it on for

  size. It sort of fits you, actually.

  Me? Casey?

  Casey.

  Casey.

  Casey and Maya.

  “Dad never called her Maya.

  He called her Jenny, when

  he bothered to call her anything

  other than dyke, bitch, or whore.

  Do you think that woman with

  spiky hair is Maya’s partner?”

  Not her partner. Her wife.

  “So she is a lesbian.”

  Apparently. Does it matter?

  I Don’t See How It Can

  I might be a lesbian,

  or at least halfway gay.

  Why should it bother me

  at all that my mother

  is married to a woman?

  But somehow it seems to.

  I guess it’s been such a big part

  of Dad’s chronicle for so long.

  He made me choke it down—

  a heaping spoonful of bitterness.

  At the moment I just want to puke

  it back up, spit it in Dad’s face.

  “How the fuck could he do this to me?”

  My eyes sting and I burrow them

  into the palms of my hands. “Holy

  shit, Zelda! My entire childhood

  is gone. He made me believe I was

  someone I wasn’t. He made me

  believe he was all I needed. Not

  friends. Not family. Not my . . .”

  Mom

  Mom.

  I know the word.

  Can’t comprehend its meaning.

  I’ve seen moms on TV.

  Handsome women with scripted

  senses of humor who forgive

  their kids’ mistakes, regardless

  of how huge and in-your-face

  the infractions are. Yeah, right.

  TV moms don’t count.

  I’ve seen moms in the park.

  Pushing their kids

  on the merry-go-round, wearing

  permanent smiles and texting

  who-knows-who. Beneath

  Sephora makeup and Pilates bods,

  park moms are real

  plastic.

  I’ve seen moms at school.

  Delivering forgotten homework

  or lunches, or birthday cupcakes,

  all decked out in fancy jogging

  suits and perfect ponytails,

  quick to hug, slow to scowl,

  at least in that setting.

  School moms know how

  to make an entrance.

  I’ve seen all these moms

  over the years, and none quite

  measured up to my romanticized,

  highly stylized vision

  of the mom I pretended

  belonged to me.

  I can still picture her:

  She’s young and pretty.

  Her favorite outfit is well-worn

  jeans, a soft angora sweater.

  Her eyes are deep ponds

  of wisdom. If I stare into them

  long enough, I’ll find the answers

  I need. She’s tough and bold,

  but her lap is my haven,

  and her hands are cups

  of tenderness. When

  she holds me, my thirst

  for home is satisfied.

  I imagined her.

  Yearned for her.

  Went to sleep crying

  for her. Eventually,

  I gave up on her.

  What am I supposed

  to do with her now?

  I Leave Zelda

  Quietly drowning

  her bewilderment

  in tumblers of alcohol.

  I must not inherently

  be a drunk, or I would

  have joined her. Escape

  seems preferable

  to confrontation, but

  it’s the latter I go in search

  of, and I have zero idea

  what I’ll face when I walk

  in the door at home.

  Passing the Triple G,

  I spy the distant silhouette

  of Gabe’s GTO parked

  in front of the house, and

  a sharp sense of loss slices

  into my solar plexus.

  But I’m not sure

  if Gabe is to blame.

  I guess, thinking back over

  the past couple of weeks,

  he was pulling away,

  but it was a subtle change

  and not one I noticed.

  What does that say

  about me?

  Oh, How I Wish

  That losing Gabe

  (who I never exactly

  “had,” or even wanted

  to) was my biggest

  problem. If I

  concentrate

  solely on that,

  direct all my worry

  and energy there,

  will the too-immense-to-

  imagine

  problem just go away?

  For years and years

  all I wanted was

  a solid home, and not

  one I had to

  invent

  in my mind over

  and over again.

  But not in my wildest

  dreams did I ever

  envision

  the scope of

  Dad’s deception,

  and no matter what

  I do or want, there’s

  no way my life won’t

  change.

  Dad’s at the House

  When I get there. I expected that.

  But the pandemonium inside

  comes as a shock, don’t ask me

  why. I should’ve guessed.

  Dad’s running around in panic mode,

  stuffing personal possessions into

  a duffel bag. Three large suitcases
/>
  already clog the hall by the front door.

  “What are you doing, Dad?” I ask,

  though it’s pretty damn obvious

  he’s making plans to disappear. Again.

  Well, he’s going without me this time.

  He pauses his packing long enough

  to answer. We have to go now, Ari.

  I’m sorry, but you’ll have to leave

  your car here. Too easy to trace.

  “Nope. Count me out. I’m staying

  right here, along with my car.

  I’m not running away, and neither

  are you. Can we just get real for once?”

  I am getting real, and we are getting

  the hell out. This is all your fault.

  Oh, you just had to get your ass on TV,

  didn’t you? You just had to fuck things up.

  What the serious hell? “Me? You want

  to blame this on me? Are you totally

  out of your goddamn mind? You—”

  I don’t see his backhand coming.

  It connects with my right cheek,

  snapping my mouth closed around

  the remainder of the sentence.

  Shut the fuck up. Don’t you dare

  talk to me like that. Just who

  the hell do you think you are?

  The look in his eyes defies

  anything human. “Nobody.”

  That’s exactly right. He’s pulling

  in breath like it’s an effort. Nobody.

  His hands clench, and experience

  whispers this could go from bad

  to much worse.

  I Lift My Hand

  To my throbbing cheek,

  hope to attract a small

  measure of sympathy,

  as I start a slow backward

  creep, one foot behind

  the other. He notices

  and when he starts toward

  me, I get ready to run.

  “Is my name Casey Baxter?”

  The simple question stops

  his approach, and the concrete

  set of his jaw softens.

  Not anymore.

  “Who is Ariel Pearson?

  And Mark? Who is he?”

  Dad’s shoulders drop.

  The tide of peril recedes.

  Look, Ari. There are things

  you don’t know, and shouldn’t.

  “You mean, like you went

  AWOL and officially now

  you’re a deserter?” Carefully.

  Must play this carefully.

  Who the fuck told you that?

  Make It Personal

  “Zelda. And what about her?

  Is she just another use-

  her-and-toss-her woman?

  I thought she was different.”

  No such thing as different.

  All women are the same.

  “Come on, Dad. You don’t believe